


The Act of Creation

by Nabu



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Elder Scrolls Kink Meme, Gen, Interrogation, Psychological Torture, The Great War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:17:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2853854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabu/pseuds/Nabu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To create something new, one must first destroy. And it’s not a gentle process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Act of Creation

They  bring him in at the crack of dawn, blindfolded and gagged, with hands tied behind his back. His feet are like a plough, leaving behind a trail of dirt as he is dragged inside the fort. Two soldiers hold him up by his elbows.

He has been severely battered, that is evident enough. A scar is already forming on his left cheek, his chest is dotted with greenish bruises and crusts of dried blood. He sports a couple of broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder and a back covered with a net of burned skin. Still, not a word has escaped the barrier of his lips. His will unbent.

This is the result of a roughly-done work, perpetrated by incompetent hands. Brutality has always a purpose but only if properly dosed and addressed.

It’s not a surprise, then, to see this man here. The Interrogator knows what is best when it comes to stubborn prisoners. And this one is special, in his own way. He has to be properly taken care of.

He is young, even for a human, with straw hair and the build of a colt, muscled yet lean. The Empire is really at a loss, the Interrogator muses with eyes fixed on the prisoner, if it’s asking other provinces to send mere children to the slaughter. Even if they didn’t already knew it, there would be no need to ask him for his race. It is written in capital letters all over is body, visible in the strong set of his features. He hails from the harsh lands of the Nord.

They lock him in a small cell at the very end of the dimly lit corridor. From now on, darkness and the four walls made of stone will be his sole companions.

When the Interrogator leaves the dungeon, the man is still unconscious and unaware of what awaits him.

For now he rests.

________

The full moons are shining over the small fort hidden among the hills beside the Yellow Road. Thirty days have passed, the man is still held captive. Every morning the Interrogator descends the stairs from the upper levels – where the personal rooms are located - to reach the bowels of stone and dirt of the prison, getting from the guards first-hand information about the man kept inside.

It is not time to become personally acquainted with him. Not yet.

Everything must be reported in detail. How many hours he sleeps. What he does when he is awake. What he says, if he speaks. During the first week he has yelled almost incessantly. Insulting, taunting, cursing his captors. Bold words for someone who has been locked away like an unpleasant thought. But as soon as he has realized that no one was going to enter and confront him, physically or verbally, he has chosen to close himself off in a stubborn silence.

The guards pay the utmost attention around him. _Never be seen. Do not interact with the prisoner._ These are the orders. The Interrogator has strongly insisted  on this particular matter. They spy him from an horizontal crack on the door of his cell and enter only when he is asleep, passed out from exhaustion or the pain of his ill-healing wounds.

Every time he wakes up he always finds a small bowl of watered soup at his feet. Not enough to make him sated but sufficient to keep him alive. And if he doesn’t want to die of thirst and hunger, he has to drop on his knees as much as his strained arms -chained behind his back to the wall- allow him. Bowing, until his face is parallel to the grimy floor, he eats. Like a dog.

On the third week he starts speaking to himself.

It is an interesting behavior, the Interrogator reckons. He mutters foreign words, a litany of guttural and ancient sounds. It’s the rough tongue of his fathers. The man prays his Gods but it’s not out of desperation. It is a clever way to track the passing of time, to keep his mind focused and resolution true in an environment completely devoid of points of reference, human or inanimate.

He is resourceful.

It is time to push him further.

________

On the 31st day since his arrival, the usual silence of the dungeon is suddenly broken by screams of pain and the eerie noise of broken bones. After that, a telltale sign: the cloying stench of burned skin and muscles. The man doesn’t pray anymore. He just listens in the dark, eyes wide open, and the rattling of his shackles, that can be even heard over the cacophony of cries, betrays him. All his body trembles, prey of an unspeakable horror. The Interrogator can easily imagine all the questions that must be haunting him while his head turns frantically at every noise he hears, nerves tensing in anticipation, waiting for something to happen that never comes.

Has another army fallen? Could the victims be his shield brothers? Are they young warriors like him or hardened soldiers, reduced to weeping children under the spells of ruthless Thalmor mages? Why are they doing this to them but not to him? Is this a sort of sickened plan to break him and make him talk? Is it mere cruelty? Is he going to be the next?

The lightning bolts strike again and again whipping air and skin alike. The harsh cracks reverberate throughout the dungeon. They creep under the wooden door of his cell and there they remain. A reminder of violence, or maybe the prelude of worse things to come.

It takes him a fortnight of torture inflicted on others, of inhuman cries regurgitated from pain-distorted mouths, to plead them to stop. To unleash on him whatever they have. He has information. He wants to talk with the man in charge.

 _That_ is the moment they have been waiting for.

________

The Interrogator walks down the corridor at a slow pace. There is no rush. The plan has been diligently carried through every phase and now, like a plump fruit ready to be picked, it is time for the harvest.

Deep down, in the dungeon that branches off beneath the fort, there is the acrid stench of urine, the metallic smell of blood that lingers heavily in the stale air. Some of them do war in the open, others, like the Interrogator, carry on a battle fought in the dark. Two means to the same end.

Outside the cavernous prison, cold days have slowly melted into a warm spring, while the fields are blooming under a mild sun. But underground there isn’t the comfort of a bright morning, only  the haunting, flickering light of a dozen torches on the stonewall.

As the Interrogator enters the restricted space of the last room it is as though a starless night has suddenly come down.

Only speckles of golden embroidery are visible in the semi-darkness, the washed-out paleness of skin and a pair of angular eyes that want to cut the flesh and dig into the soul.

There is no apparent rage or disgust, nor pleasure or satisfaction on the alien face. No particular emotion aside a blank seriousness, a controlled sense of purpose. It’s an oval mirror which reflects the fears of whomever is staring at it.

After so many days spent in isolation, without any human contact, be it for comfort or physical pain, the prisoner is visibly torn between the need to avert his gaze and the will to keep looking.

That is good.

The Interrogator comes closer until the face of the man is just at arm’s length.

“I know who you are.”

The first words the stranger speaks possess the certainty derived from knowledge. In them there is both a promise and a threat.

“The likes of you are all the same. Men who believe themselves heroes, who cannot stay away from the battlefield, seeking personal honor and glory under the false pretense of some superior justice and legitimacy. You are one of those men, son of the Eastmarch.”

Upon hearing the name of his hold, the prisoner falters. Of course they know who he is. They have known it since the day he has been captured, in one of the numerous skirmishes outside the City Gates. The heir of a Jarl doesn’t blend easily in the ranks of the Legion like a common peasant or a blacksmith would do. There is always a trail, something that betrays the noble origin. Like a family heirloom, a bear’s head-shaped necklace, hidden under the regular armor.

“You came down your mountain barely of age, still green to the ways of the world, forsaking the teachings of your Master. Oh you tell yourself it was out of duty, that you couldn’t stay idle and safe while your kinsmen went to war. That you didn’t have a choice. But the truth is: you had it. There is always a choice. Do you regret your decision? Now that you have been made a witness, that you have been given plenty of time to think. You should be grateful that I have granted you the chance to ponder about your doings.”

The Interrogator’s voice is steady and mellifluous, in stark contrast with the words just spoken. But it is nonetheless soothing after endless days spent in deafening silence or kept awake by horrendous screams. It is welcomed as a blessing. The prisoner listens, drinking from the offered words like a thirsty man from a spring.

“You came because you crave battle, because even if you pledged yourself to a life of prayers and meditation you couldn’t resist the chance to write your name in the pages of History, alongside your ancestors. How many times have you dreamed of them in your seclusion on the snowy peaks of the Throat of the World?  Of being like one of them?”

And he has, _he has_. The Interrogator can read it in the curve of his shoulders, in the way his head lowers. Guilty. Bare as an infant in front of the Truth he has just been fed. Oh the dreams of youth.. they always seem so right and possible until reality shatters them irremediably, leaving behind only a sense of shame for such foolish hopes.

“I am not one of your kinsmen, I am not swayed by the tale of your noble intentions. I can see you for what you really are. A child who deludes himself with thoughts of honorable deeds but deep inside selfishly longs to be acclaimed and considered worthy of his forefathers. You have been rash in your decision. But that’s what humans do. They act without thinking about the consequences of their actions, guided by their whimsical instincts. And they make mistakes, for which the rest of the world has to pay.”

Men are volatile creatures, with short lives and even shorter memories. But the Interrogator and the Thalmor remember, the humans’ past is their present. The horrors of the hordes of Oblivion is not forgotten, nor forgiven. The shattering of the Crystal Tower still echoes in their ears.

“I know what you want. You want to fight, to resist whatever is thrown in your path, to prove your strength and righteousness and eventually to die the death of the warrior. You want to earn your place in the hall of Shor. But I won’t give you what you desire.”

The Interrogator’s voice lowers until it becomes a vicious hiss. A malevolent sneer cuts its way through the hollowed cheek.

“I will take it from you, your glorious death, your honor, your pride, everything that makes you a noble Nord, respected among your people. Do you know why?”

Ah yes, he wants to know. He so desperately _needs_ to believe that all of this has a purpose that could give meaning to everything he has been through. He stares with those eyes, the color of iced-water, harsh, like the winters of his land, and yet hopeful. They seems so big on his emaciated face.

The smile only grows.

“There is no reason. There is no ulterior motive. I do this because I can, because it amuses me and because I don’t need you.”

The laugh that follows hits his skin with more force than the spells they used when he was first captured.

“We Thalmor can wait. Don’t you see it? Sooner or later you will be defeated. It is just a matter of time. You are useless. I don’t need to torture you to extort information, I don’t need to speak with you. I’m here only because you pleaded for a meeting and I was bored enough to indulge you. Was it only because your noble heart couldn’t stand the torture inflicted on your companions? Or a part of you, deep inside, wanted to partake in this punishment too? You just can’t stand it. Anything but _this,_ am I right?”

The lean arm of the Interrogator widens in an imaginary embrace of the surroundings. Yes, anything would be better than rotting away in the dark, to be a secondary victim, especially for a young man born from a noble family, raised with the values of action, whose place is in the front lines fighting the enemy sword at hand.

The prisoner struggles in a pitiful attempt to free himself but the battle between his flesh and the steel of his chains is lost from the outset. There is no escape from the prison, just as there is no stopping the onslaught of words directed at him.

“How shameful of you to secretly wish for the enemy’s attention just to cope with your wounded honor, to give yourself a reason to endure. You need me more than I would ever need you. For what is a hero without a foe to fight? What is martyrdom without the choice of giving up life for a greater good? Do you want to know what I will do instead? I will keep you here, like this. No one will raise a finger on you. You will age in this cell and some day, many years from now, a nameless guard will find your body in this exact position, the corpse of an old, withered man in a pool of piss and excrements, while outside the war will still be raging on.”

A calculated pause. Then, the final blow.

“You will not die like a warrior. You will never enter Sovngard. You will waste away here, like a diseased rat in a sewer. Forgotten. Inconsequential. For this is what you are for me, _Ulfric._ ”

That is when the Interrogator sees it.

Realization settling in. Ineluctable and real. Carved in stone like a death sentence.

As if his skull was made of the purest glass, The Interrogator can see the paths his thoughts are taking. He _knows_ now that the Thalmor can take them all down like a poison slowly infecting the blood. He _believes_ that everything will fall apart and that he would be an helpless spectator. And what has a man to do when he is faced with such a future? A soldier would sacrifice his honor in the hope of preventing a greater damage. A little loss in the grand scheme of things.

But there is a way to face this destiny of seclusion, if only he could delude himself into believing he has done the right thing. But at what cost…

The terror in the sickened paleness of his eyes is almost palpable, real and born from something so intangible as words. Even the way the Interrogator says his name, mangling the pronunciation, flattening the proud, harsh _r_ until it becomes a twisted, slithery sound, redefines his own being. His new life.

For in that moment, as he starts to talk, he will be forever lost.

The Interrogator listens with disinterest but doesn’t stop the stream of words that comes from the prisoner’s mouth. It would be valid information, if they had a need of it. But that is what he thinks, what he _must_ think from this moment till the end of his days.

That he is offering them a quick victory, sealing the fate of a city, in the remote hope of preventing thousands of deaths in a war that could protract for years. But the truth is that he has bargained the life of many to save his twisted sense of honor.

He has to believe himself a traitor, and of the worst kind. The one who offers himself willingly to the enemy, believing that his betrayal is in the end a selfless act.

He doesn’t need to know that the  Imperial City has already fallen, a few weeks after his capture.

This war is already won, no matter the outcome. The Interrogator’s work is to prepare the next phase, to plant the seeds in a fertile soil. And there is beauty in the way this process is accomplished, in the circular perfection that puts the victim as his own, ultimate torturer. In the end it’s his shame that will do the rest,  his self-loathing that will put the noose around his neck, his guilt that will drive him to kick the stool from under his feet. The Interrogator only provides the means, the cord and the gallows, where the prisoner will hang himself with his own hands. And with his fall, he will drag an Empire down with him.

And when he will understand that he has condemned himself for naught, like a rabid dog, he would bite and infect the hand of his master.

 _This_ is real brutality.

It’s a pity only a few can appreciate it and inflict it properly.

When the man finally falls silent, there are tears running down his dirty cheeks. His mind has been broken and shaped anew.

Destruction and creation.That is the Interrogator’s job.

He doesn’t know it yet but they will release him in a few days, a man reborn, a precious asset for the future plans of the Dominion. And this unexpected freedom will make him feel even more the traitor.

Released in exchange of information.

A sense of fulfillment accompanies the Interrogator in the walk from the dungeon to the private quarters. But it is not time to celebrate. A letter must be written at once and sent to the High Command.

 

_To the Lord General Naarifin_

_From First Interrogator Elenwen_

_Hereby I present the detailed report of the interrogation of Ulfric, son of Sigmund, Jarl of Windhelm.._

 

As the Interrogator’s hand fluidly slides on the scroll - leaving behind neat, inked words - outside the fort the sun sets over the bloodied waters of Lake Rumare.


End file.
